


It's not the years, honey, it's the mileage

by Anuna



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack-ish, Darcy is an awesome assitant, F/M, Movie Reference, Prompt Fill, Romance, actors!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about Clint ruining Natasha's interview, in which she ends up compromising their friendship. And then there's kissing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's not the years, honey, it's the mileage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkvoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkvoices/gifts).



> Written for the be-compromised mini Valentine's day promptathon, for the prompt Clint and Natasha as actors/movie stars.

*

 

He woke up to the voice of his assistant – his young, chatty, overly eager assistant. (She was young, yes, and bright as they came, but he doubted she would ever grow out of her eagerness unlike most of the assistants that came and went. He feared that Darcy was here to stay and constantly crack her effective whip at him). 

“Shit. Barton wake up,” Darcy was saying, poking his shoulder and adjusting his hospital bed. He was propped up, just slightly, but it was decidedly against his will. Besides he was still groggy from the medicines and everything still hurt like hell. “Shit, shit, shit -”

Clint opened his eyes, just barely, and looked at her. When he realized that her clothes were mismatched and her hair was in disarray, it was clear that something serious was up. 

“What happened?” he groaned, moving his right hand slowly. IV was still strapped to his wrist and it annoyed the hell outta him. 

Darcy was pacing around the room, balancing with her iPad in one and cell phone in other hand. She stopped in front of him and handed him the tablet. “Oh, nothing, just you and Romanoff and your epic, behind-the-scenes love story happened. You're all over the headlines, sweetheart,” she said and before Clint was able to open his mouth her phone started buzzing. 

“Coulson? Finally! I'm trying to reach you for, like, an hour -” she stopped talking and continued nodding, as if Coulson could actually see her. “No. Yes. No, he slept through it, but I watched. Well, he is making headlines for a change,” Darcy said, looking at him as one would look a stray dog that was lovely, but still pretty ugly. Clint frowned and finally looked at the tablet and the website article she handed him. 

“-the fuck,” he said, staring at the design of _Glitz &Glamour_ website. The pink color they used was equally distasteful as their usual content. The title was saying: _Natasha Romanoff: Is this love?”_ and before he had the time to get angry over this ( _not again_ , he thought rather protectively, _don't they have anything else to write about?_ ) he noticed his own name in the subtitle. 

_Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton – co-stars, friends, and possibly something more?_

“What the hell is this, Darcy?” he pushed himself up and his cracked ribs protested, reminding him that his movement was limited for the time being. 

“It's the real deal, baby,” Darcy said. “Just read it.”

So he did. It turned out that Nat had an interview, and not just any interview, but one on Odinson Show. Clint groaned. Odinson was an asshole, but a clever asshole. There was a reason why he used _”exposing you slowly, intimately and in every way you fear”_ as his tagline. He poked at the things that hurt, he found out things you'd prefer not to say in front of cameras, he really exposed people. Going to his show was just as bad as not going – if you refused then you had something to hide, if you accepted the invitation, you could count on something unpleasant finding its way to the headlines. (And there were always those people who.... jumped all over armchairs on stage and always wanted any kind of attention, so they went eagerly.

Clint never got an invite and he was fine with that.)

Nat declined his invitation three times already and there was talk about it. There was _always_ talk about Natasha, and he hated it. 

He remembered their recent conversation pretty accurately. It went something like this - 

”You know he's going to bring me up if you go there,” Clint said to her not a month ago, when she mentioned a second invite to him. They were re-shooting a scene and the day was long, exhausting and pretty boring. Who on Earth allowed Nick Fury to direct movies? He was more suited for some kind of military career. (Seriously, a guy who used lines such as, _”if you come to the set late just **one more time** , I will fire you. With an actual firing squad!”_)

“So what if he does?” Nat asked, leaning across the table to steal his french fries. “Why do they always have junk food on these sets?”

He shrugged and grabbed more french fries himself. “Because it's good?”

“Speak for yourself, your metabolism can handle it. I won't be able to get in that ridiculous costume -”

“Black Widow, the demon hunter? Badass,” he joked and she smiled. They called her Black Widow ever since their first movie together. “They can make a bigger costume,” he added and she threw a piece of bread at him, then continued to poke through uninspiring salad sitting in front of her. 

“So what if he brings you up? We're friends,” she said. “I've got nothing to hide.” 

He remembered how he smiled at her back then and didn't say anything. Yes, they were friends. And no, he shouldn't entertain the _what if_. Ever. She was young, she was a true star, he was a background player toeing his forties. Not that he was insecure about his age or success; he was quite comfortable where he was. But Nat had a world ahead of her and under her feet and she should use every damn chance that offered itself because she deserved it. (After everything she'd been through, two separations and break ups and being young but feeling too old? She deserved it all.)

“It's not _“How Harry met Sally”_ , Barton,” she teased but there was something amiss in her eyes. “Men and women can be friends,” she added warmly and covered his large hand with her soft palm.

 

Clint's mind returned to present and he read the article. It was written in the site's usual bombastic style but he could tell there were actual facts underneath this story – after all the interview happened, and there was a YouTube video attached. 

“Watch it,” Darcy smiled sweetly at him. There was a hint of _I told you so_ in her expression. Seriously, that girl wanted nothing more but for him and Nat to hook up. 

Clint sighed and clicked 'play'. 

*

When he thought back about the interview, Odinson concluded it was an easy work after all. He started with relaxing chatter about some nice place she visited lately (Spain), went onto her recent projects and skillfully steered the conversation towards the movie everyone was talking about, _The Avenging Angels._ She was good at communicating, he had to admit that. She knew which words to use and how to use them and he didn't even plan doing something he usually did with his guests. If Natasha Romanoff came to talk to him, she came prepared. So, instead of talking about love failures of her youth (that horse had been beaten to death, thank you, so he was not going to do it) he asked her about doing her own stunts and how she felt about not getting the wings. She was entertaining enough to tide the audience through first half of the show. 

He did have a plan. (He always had a plan.) Instead of provoking her to react, he intended to let someone else do it. The plan was to call Barton, who was scheduled to re-shoot some of his scenes (action probably. He was something like Bruce Willis of secondary roles, perpetually cast in supporting roles of reliable, tough men) and interview them both on topic of their friendship. He also had a slideshow of assorted photographs prepared to show on the big screen in the studio, documenting ten -ish years of their legendary friendship. It was, indeed, all set.

However. During the break one of the techs came running to tell him that Barton couldn't be reached. Marvelous. Just when Barton was finally about to be useful to him, Odinson thought. But then tech went on with his explanation. Barton was hurt. Romanoff didn't know. 

Badly hurt during shooting? In hospital? Oh this couldn't have been better, Odinson thought. 

If Barton was able to make the ice queen smile and drop that control of hers (or so it was said), then how would she react to the news that her friend (and frankly, the only man she had some kind of a long term relationship with) was badly hurt during shooting?

*

Fuck it all, Natasha thought when she entered the cab. She saw the driver had glanced a couple of times at the mirror and checked her out, but she stayed safely hidden behind large shades not really caring if he recognized her. The ride to the hospital took too long for her nerves and she kept thinking about the interview. She was ready for usual and less usual questions, but she wasn't ready for _this_. Jesus, Clint, she thought. When Odinson said he was hurt, she felt how warmth and color drained away from her face and her hands. She'd bolt out of that armchair right then and there, but Natasha wasn't going to do something stupid (not to herself or Clint). She pressed her lips together. Her face was probably telling too much while Odinson _softly_ explained that he wasn't able to find out the nature of Barton's injuries. Which was probably true, considering it happened few hours ago ( _if_ he was telling her the truth) and Natasha knew it could have been anything; from something harmless to very serious things, and just how many times did she tell him to use stunts? 

_Rogers uses stunts, Stark would never go anywhere without stunts. You don't have anything to prove._

_Are you worried about my old ass, doll?”_

She hated when he called her doll.

Nobody else called her doll. 

Bastard Odinson asked her if this was love. _”Is this love, Miss Romanoff?”_ when she couldn't hide that she was concerned about the idiot who just had to prove that he was as good as a twenty-something year old Steve Rogers. 

She could whack him on the head. Only, she had no idea how he hurt himself, but if he was in hospital then it was serious. 

_”Is this love, Miss Romanoff?”_ Odinson asked sweetly, concernedly, and she hated his sleek suit and his hair and his dishonest smile. 

She held her breath and willed her heartbeat to slow down and said, “Love is for children, Mister Odinson,” she had paused, keeping her appearance calm, but hating the man across from her with every ounce of her being. “He is my best friend,” she added quietly. 

_It's something people like you can't understand_ , she added quietly to herself.

At the time she thought she did okay. After the interview was done Pepper walked up to Natasha and told her that she booked her a plane ticket. And squeezed Nat's hand, giving her that concerned, sympathetic look she usually had saved for really bad press releases. Natasha realized why Pepper used it after she watched _that part_ of the interview while waiting in the airport (seriously, who put up these things on YouTube so quickly?)

 

The thing was... it was not okay.

Not.

Oh God.

Because, the way it turned out? She could have easily said that she loved him. 

The cab pulled over, she paid for the ride and tugged her coat close around her body. Her first instinct was to walk as quickly as she could because there was always someone who noticed her, or took a picture or -

Enough of that, Natasha thought and took off her shades. 

Then she entered the building and if someone watched? 

She didn't care. 

*

“Wake up, Barton,” it was a different voice this time. A voice he knew. He opened his eyes and there she was – tousled hair and wrinkled shirt and lovely shade of red on her cheeks (was she in a hurry? To get to him?) . 

“Tasha,” he said groggily through the fog of the medication and dull pain. 

“You idiot,” she said, but when he swallowed and opened his eyes a bit more, he saw she was biting her lip. 

“Geez, thanks,” he said, letting his eyes slip shut and flutter open again. She was frowning at him, and she was angry, but she was even more worried and that, somehow, felt incredibly good. All warm and tingly in his chest. So he smiled. “That's a great way to greet an injured man.”

“ Is _told you so_ better?” she asked, getting up from the side of his bed and pacing around his room. He rarely saw her pace aimlessly, and soon she found a purpose for herself and brought him a glass of water. She took a seat next to him again and he tried to lift himself a little. She got up again, placed the water on the nightstand and started to adjust the pillow behind his back. “But what I would really like to do is hit you hard. On the head.”

“That would be awesome, sweetheart, because my head is the only thing that doesn't hurt right about now,” he said. She took time with the pillow, though, unnecessary long because he was comfortable as it was. However he wasn't going to complain about receiving her attention. 

Especially when her hand landed on top of his head. Her fingers threaded lightly through his hair and he sighed, not giving a damn about all those _what-if_ things and reasons why not to go there, which sounded very reasonable not so long ago. He replayed his fall enough times to be pretty sure he could have easily not made it. Falling backwards from heights was dangerous and generally stupid. 

She was right. What the heck was he trying to prove?

“Clint?” she said and he opened his eyes again. Her fingers trailed down his cheek; it wasn't the first time she touched his face, it happened plenty of times in front of cameras (in fact they touched a lot when they first met, during “Budapest” and that was fun, but it wasn't them. They were acting.) This – oh God, _this_. This wasn't acting. The way she was looking at him wasn't acting. He knew longing when he saw it because it was what he was feeling as well.

“Yes, doll?” he asked and she smiled so sadly. 

“I may have compromised our friendship,” she said, her hand cupping his cheek. 

“I saw,” he answered, lifting his hand to cover hers and keep it in place. 

She licked her lips and pressed them together. “I'm not sorry,” she said. Clint held his breath. 

“Me neither, doll,” he managed then. He really had enough of this tension, he thought, so he tugged on her hand and she sat down next to him again, only much closer this time. “You know, if I wasn't all... broken and in pain, I would kiss you right now,” he said dramatically, his mouth quirking up. His heart was beating hard when she entwined their fingers and held on. 

“Is that so?” she asked. 

“Mhmmm. But. Can't kiss you, because -” he lifted his other hand weekly. “I'm an old, injured man, sweetheart.”

“Well,” she said, leaning closer and above him. He was looking up at her face, her eyes almost smiling down at him. “Tell me where it hurts, Herr Jones,” she said and it took him a moment, but he figured out what to do. He pointed at his chin and she kissed him lightly there. He sighed and his toes curled, but he kept on playing the game. He pointed at his nose, his eyelid, his cheek and she kissed it all. She kissed him slowly, softly, and when she stopped to look at him again, she finally smiled. 

“There you are,” he said, smiling in return. It seemed she couldn't stop touching him, his face, his hair, his lips. 

“Does anything else hurt, old man?” she asked. He nodded then and placed his finger on his lips. 

Her grin was brilliant and her lips were soft against his as she made her way into his mouth. Clint let himself drown in the feel of her, which was great because nothing hurt any more. 

*

Few hours later Darcy came to check on her employer (whom she mostly had to babysit, and sometimes it was annoying, but most of the time it was okay). She didn't expect to find Natasha Romanoff in the room (and on the same narrow bed) with him, but she did. It was a cute, awww-inducing sight and Darcy would have enjoyed looking at them, her head on his chest, both of them awkwardly wrapped around one another and asleep, if she didn't have a ton of work to do. (Work provided by two people on the bed, in fact). 

But it was really fucking _cute_. 

_Finally_ , she thought. Maybe now she won't have to babysit him so much. 

She sighed in relief and turned on her heel. If paparazzi decided to turn up and bother them, they would have to go through her first.


End file.
